Ghosts
by CSIphoebe
Summary: My first Moriarty/Moran fanfic. Based around the time of TRF, as that seems to be the only thing I can actually write about.
1. Chapter 1

Hello.

Once again, thank you for actually reading this. This is my first Moriarty/Moran fanfic so it may not be brilliant. I've just got into that ship and I have to admit- I love them both. The fic isn't that long, and each chapter was created to show a change in time. I hope it isn't that complicated and awful. I also do not own any of the Sherlock characters.

Enjoy!

-Phoebe

* * *

><p>One thing I've learnt and held onto throughout my military past is not to develop sentiment; it only distracts you and stops you moving forward. However, another thing I learnt is that over the course of your life, a few people will try to rekindle the forgotten feeling of that forbidden emotion, and when they do, everything changes.<p>

The rain bounces off my dark, dripping hair and trickles down my forehead, gliding over the creases in my furrowed brow. I pull the khaki collar of my camouflage jacket up around my neck and chin, protecting the red raw and sliced skin from the icy northern wind. I don't know who I'm meeting, but apparently he's important. My heavy leather boots pound the cracked concrete of the industrial building, sending off echoes that ricochet off the crumbling walls. The site is poorly lit, and with barely any natural light seeping through the aged cracks, almost every corner is engulfed by the darkness.

I come to a halt when I catch the first glimpse of the apparent employer. He holds himself with an air of dignity, as if he knows and believes that he is the superior being. His navy blue suit melts away from the shadows and suddenly his face is clearly visible. A part of him seems to radiate smugness and the hunger for power, and is portrayed by his wide, gleaming, almost childlike grin that could easily put the Joker to shame. His penetrating eyes are a chocolaty brown colour and his pupils, which currently seem to resemble black holes, are dilated. He takes a small step forward, the Italian leather of his expensive looking shoes creaking in the process. "Sebastian Moran?" he asked while taking another step towards my stationary body, his distinctive Irish accent rang beautifully through the dusty air.

"Yes?" My voice caught on my dry thorax, still weak and croaky from the effort and shouting my last assassination had required. My calloused fingers slid around the barrel of the gun pressed against my thigh. He noticed my slight movement and chuckled lightly to himself.

"People like you never lose their fighting instincts. So, Mr Moran, what do you say to putting that gun to good use?" The thrill of a potential target and mission swept over my muscular figure, triggering my military instincts. Soon enough, nothing else mattered- my mind was already set firmly into sniper mode. His patronising facial expression seemed to imply that he demanded an answer, preferably one that suited his request. A harsh sigh escaped from my pursed, chapped lips.

"Who do you want dead?"


	2. Chapter 2

Very little was revealed of this shady character, but the more I worked for him the easier it became to read him. He had introduced himself as Jim Moriarty, a consulting criminal, and he liked to think that he was the only one on this planet. I towered over his strangely petite figure but, nevertheless, he seemed to have some sort of controlling power over me, and reminded me of it daily. His targets would often be notorious criminals that tore their way through London, terrorising civilians and ruining what would be peaceful days. But Jim is no "Good Samaritan" looking out for the citizens of London, oh no. He's merely killing off his competitors.

I lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the torrential rain with my cupped hand. Rain had become a common factor in my assassinations of Jim as the bloody thing seemed to enjoy making my life hell and the task even harder. Sprawled among the damp autumn leaves that carpeted the ground, I propped the gun up against a rock and scanned the surrounding area through a tiny gap in the dense shrubbery. Jim's target walked into my line of fire, completely oblivious to the fact that in a few moments his splattered brain would be joining the precipitation falling from the sky above us. My finger twitched against the trigger, desperate to execute the figure in front of me. I resisted the urge.

Just a few more steps.

A deafening crack echoed through the trees as the bullet firmly lodged itself into the unsuspecting victim's brain. He fell to the floor, motionless. Smirking to myself I paced over to his limp, lifeless body and grabbed his ankles. Dragging his dead weight back down the hill towards the small stream, Jim's words echoed through my head: "Dispose of him quickly- he is more powerful than you think. And remember; it's your neck on the line here, not mine." The body of the deceased landed on the algae covered rocks with a splash. Picking up the smoking gun I headed back the way I came, following the deep impressions my boots had made earlier. It was a long journey back to the city, but it was nothing compared to the harsh conditions I was trained for in the army.

Sure enough, Jim was waiting for me when I arrived. His arms were folded across his chest and his weight was supported by the spotless glass window behind him. When he heard my heavy footsteps gradually get louder his head snapped up and his eyes were on me, following my every move with undivided attention. "I'm guessing you got the job done."

"He's taken care of, sir."

Jim's face lit up like a child in a sweet shop at the thought of the blood of his target polluting the fresh spring water.

"Brilliant."


	3. Chapter 3

My hands were stained with her blood- this one had turned out to be a lot messier than I had suspected. Despite her delicate lightweight frame and lack of fighting skills she tried her best to put up a fight in self defence. Unfortunately for her, that didn't work. I didn't know why he wanted her killed and I never managed to make a connection between the two. Looking down at her bruised face half concealed by her tangled blonde hair, I presumed she was just a distraction for him; someone completely random. Despite knowing that her murder would in no way, shape or form help Jim, I couldn't just leave her alive. His rewards are too important to me, too good to be missed, especially for some unknown girl. Everyone gets bored, and Jim Moriarty is certainly no exception.

Upon noticing the sticky glistening substance on my palms, Jim grinned in that violent way that I secretly adored. He suddenly appeared inches from my face, my hands in his. Lifting my left palm up to his moist lips, he ran them down the artery until they reached the blood stain, where they then parted and his warm tongue swept over the tangy, metallic substance. The obscenity of him pulled a deep sigh from my own mouth. His eyes fluttered shut as his taste buds took in the blood and traced the lines of my hand. "Seb?" He whispered, pulling his mouth away from my now blood free palm.

"Yes?" I tried to conceal that faint stammer in my voice. He didn't need to know that the weak feeling was beginning to form at the backs of my knees.

"I need you to do something for me."

"Whatever you want, boss."

He chuckled lightly.

"This is something different Seb, something new. You see, I seem to have landed myself in rather a problematic situation and I need your help."

"What do you need?"

Jim seemed visibly pleased at my willingness to assist him.

"How's your aim?"

"As sharp as ever."

"Good, good. I have another target for you, but there is something you must do."

"Who?"

"Doctor John Hamish Watson."

"What was the thing I must do?"

"Tomorrow you will find him outside St. Bart's hospital. You do not kill him if you see his little friend jump from the hospital rooftop and hit the floor beneath him. If Mr Sherlock Holmes decides to spare his own life, you end John's. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Wonderful. Now Seb, I must be going. I... I have things I need to deal with…"

"What about your 'situation'?"

"That will be solved tomorrow." Jim looked away from me and his eyes darted to the floor. It was then that I witnessed an alien emotion spread across his features- fear.


	4. Chapter 4

Far above both of us, Sherlock Holmes stood at the edge of the hospital's roof, his phone in his hand. On the ground, John was also holding a phone to his ear, and concealed behind a semi-boarded up window on the fifth floor of a nearby building, I crouched with my gun aimed at his head. All the time I had been hidden here, not once had I seen Jim. He was hidden from my view, either subconsciously or intentionally. Sherlock's arms stretched out, sending his phone flying to the floor with a crack. I could see the panic start in John's eyes through the view finder. Sherlock took one last step towards the edge, tears streaming down his cheeks, before letting gravity bring him down to the pavement. John's shouts alerted everyone in the area and he rushed over to the crumpled body of his dead best friend. I was no longer needed. Alerting the two other snipers like I was instructed to do, I packed the gun away and turned my back to the window. Outside, I could hear the shocked cries of the unsuspecting members of the public as Sherlock's body, covered in a layer of ruby red blood, was carted off into the hospital. I made my way down the spiralling stairs until the cool, refreshing breeze swept over my face.

I almost ran up the stairs from the hospital to the rooftop, my gun hitting my aching thigh with every leap. The heavy metal door scraped along the concrete, squeaking at its hinges, and I was temporarily blinded by the bright glare of the sun when it finally swung open. Rubbing my eyes, I wandered aimlessly out onto the roof, not knowing where I was heading. My eye sight gradually returned to normal, and when the squint faded away, I was met by the lifeless stare of my boss. I forgot the training I had received over the years- resisting sentiment didn't matter anymore. I sunk to my knees next to his head, avoiding the pool of blood spilling from his skull. The saltiness of a tear wet my cracked lips and my breath hitched at the back of my throat. He died with the same grin I had always liked on his face, as if he was trying to show that he wasn't scared. He knew this was coming. Noticing a folded piece of cream card tucked in the pocket of his dark coat, I pulled it from his chest and gripped it in my hand. I rose to my feet again, slightly embarrassed of the fact that I had shed tears over him- a person I was not supposed to grow attached to. Unfolding the expensive looking stationary, my eyes darted over the impeccably neat calligraphy.

_Seb,_

_I am deeply sorry for this._

_Please believe me when I say I will return._

_This is not the end._

_JM._


End file.
